


The Trustees of the British Museum Deny Any Knowledge of the Return of the Items and Will Not Comment Further

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anti-Imperialism, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, duping the british museum, the boys are going on a heist, they have matching fucking shit up jackets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: During a trip to the British Museum, Crowley gets a mischievous idea. And, well, Aziraphale would do anything for a holiday at this point.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 117





	1. London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saercura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saercura/gifts).



Aziraphale loved the low lighting of the Waddesdon Bequest. He loved the high windows and the dark walls that soaked up any ray of sun that managed to get through. He loved the small display lights that bounced off the gold of the cups and jewels and statues which looked even brighter when placed against the black backdrops. 

It reminded him of his bookshop in a way, though this room was suffocatingly tidy. There wasn’t a smudge or speck of dust inside the cases. The only mess he could see was tiny handprints of children who pressed their faces to the glass to get a closer look at the tawny artifacts and sparkling gems. Aziraphale would have loved the gallery if it all looked a little more settled and… loved. 

It was the one drawback to museums. You could never see anything in its natural space, which Aziraphale thought was crucial if you really wanted to appreciate something old. His books, for example, were where they were supposed to be. In his bookshop with someone who loved them and took care of them. Crowley called it “hoarding” but Aziraphale disagreed. There was a difference. He put his books to use and cherished them all. 

He admired a reliquary. There were little angels around it, playing their horns and admiring Christ. It was all a bit inaccurate, but he appreciated the golden curls the angels had. He touched his own snowy hair. Perhaps it was vanity in the early days that made Aziraphale convince artists that angels had light, coiled locks. He hadn’t expected humans to take it so far. And he  _ was  _ paying the price now whenever he saw diapered cherubs with cartoonish curls. Crowley had teased him for it, but Aziraphale raised his chin and claimed innocence that he had any influence over it. It was pure coincidence. 

Aziraphale looked at the inscription, easily reading the Latin etched into the gold.  _ This a thorn from the crown of our Lord Jesus Christ.  _ He scoffed. It most certainly was not. It was an ordinary thorn resting against the pasty depiction of Christ. The true crown had been discarded once the bodies were taken down from the crucifixes. No one had saved a single thorn. 

The poor boy deserved better. 

Aziraphale moved on to a miniature tabernacle to his right. There wasn’t a word that had been invented yet to describe how beautiful it was. Aziraphale was amazed at what humans could do with a bit of wood and some knives. Aziraphale remembered seeing it for the first time in, if he remembered correctly, the 1520s. Or perhaps the 1530s. Maybe the 1540s? It was in the early 16th century. It was astonishing that it had been so well-preserved. All the tiny windows were still intact. The figurines weren’t even nicked.

Familiar footsteps and the echoing click of heels approached him from behind. 

“You’re still here? You haven’t moved an inch.”

Aziraphale smiled as soon as he saw Crowley. He clasped his hands in front of him.

“I moved! I was admiring that cup when you left.” Aziraphale pointed to the painted cup that was only half a foot away. “And now I’m here. Look at this tabernacle, my dear. Isn’t it beautiful? I remember seeing it in the early 1500s in the Netherlands. I believe it was Denmark.”

Crowley hummed. “Always a fan of the Danish.”

“We should visit! It’s been ages since we’ve been out of England.”

Crowley looked to the cup Aziraphale had pointed at a moment ago. It was a painted glass beaker mounted on a gilt foot. Aziraphale followed his gaze and turned towards it. Crowley looked around and, confirming that they were alone, lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head. They pushed his hair back, exposing more of his face so Aziraphale could see his freckled cheeks and strong jaw. 

“Where’s this one from?” he asked, leaning closer. 

Aziraphale pulled him back when he saw his breath fogging up the glass. He held on to Crowley’s arm though, looping his own through and inching closer. Crowley leaned into Aziraphale’s side until their hips touched. 

“The humans don’t know,” Aziraphale whispered. “But it’s from Egypt. The 13th century.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “And it’s in the British Museum.”

“Unfortunately. But they seemed to have come across this one honestly. It was taken to France to be completed and then was bought by a British collector in the 19th century.” 

“So they say.” 

“So they say.”

Crowley walked to the other end of the display case, pulling Aziraphale with him. They stared at them in silence at the collection of gold, glancing down occasionally to read the labels on the case stand. Aziraphale absorbed the glimmering while Crowley’s mouth slowly turned into a sneer.

“Do you ever think about how much of this is stolen?” he asked. 

Aziraphale nodded. “I do.”

“Do you ever think about… giving it back?” 

Aziraphale turned to him a frown. “Crowley.”

“Just thinking about it. It should be your interest, you know? Helping cultures rebuild themselves after centuries of religious wars that were waged in  _ your  _ people’s name.”

“Now really, Crowley. You know we didn’t influence any of  _ that _ . Not really. Humans just got carried away.”

“But you don’t want to help people a little?”

“You just want to steal something. The humans can right the situation themselves.”

“They haven’t yet.”

Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows and tilted his head in agreement. They stood in silence for a while longer. 

Eventually, Aziraphale turned to Crowley who was more pleasing to look at. With how close they were, Aziraphale could make out the faint freckles along his cheekbones and the slight wrinkles around his eyes. He could make out the lowlights and highlights in his hair and the flyaways that stuck out at the bottom of his waves, resting on his shoulders. 

He could see his eyes. 

For Heaven’s sake. His eyes. They had the devilish gleam in them they always had when Crowley was about to run off and do something wily. 

“I know what you’re thinking!”

Crowley smirked. “Think of it, angel. It’s perfect for both of us. You’d be undoing the work of religious imperialists. And I’d be stealing.”

“ _ Crowley _ .”

“We’d balance each out. Like we always do. There’s no net gain or loss.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He looked at a particularly shiny cup. Crowley did seem to have a point. It would be like raising Warlock. That is if Warlock was the actual antichrist and not just a poor boy who got looped into the incompetency of the two of them. They were two halves of one idiot, that Anathema girl told them when they finally shared their 11-year journey with her. 

Crowley said that she wasn’t wrong. Aziraphale had to agree. 

“When you put it that way,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I’ll agree to it on certain conditions.”

“Like what?”

“We return the items and nothing more. We don’t interfere with anything else in the museum.”

“Alright.”

“No one gets hurt.”

“ _ Of course. _ ”

“And we take a holiday after.”

Crowley threw his head back and smiled. Aziraphale gave him his best scolding look. He wanted Crowley to take him seriously. He didn’t want anyone getting hurt. And he wanted this holiday. He deserved it, and Italy was beautiful this time of year. 

“We can holiday after,” Crowley agreed. “Anywhere you heart desires.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Alright! And none of your usual tricks.”

“Angel, you have my word that I’ll control myself. Major art heists are enough for me.”

“What’s a demon’s word good for?”

“Not much if I’m being honest.”

Aziraphale knew that there was a very slim chance that Crowley would stick to whatever plan they made. He was prone to causing trouble, but he could hardly help it. Where Aziraphale made humans feel safe and cared for just by speaking to them, Crowley’s presence had the ability to spill glasses of expensive wine and stain even more expensive clothes. It  _ was  _ controllable to an extent, and Crowley  _ did  _ need to work to cause greater distress. But the daily inconveniences humans faced in London was largely due to him simply thinking, for a split second, that it would be greatly entertaining if the woman in front of him put her designer-clad foot in a muddy puddle or if the man across from him dropped his important (and loud) call as his phone battery suddenly drained. 

Fortunately, Aziraphale was always around to spread goodwill when something happened and Crowley muttered a sheepish “sorry.” The woman was surprised to see a public restroom nearby. The man had packed his phone charger that morning even though he didn’t remember doing so. And likewise, when people felt  _ too  _ safe around Aziraphale, they found the barista got their order wrong or a lock of hair slipped out of their ponytail. They balanced each other out to keep everyone just mildly irritated but able to cope. 

It would be tricky interacting with so many humans for Crowley’s new plan. But they  _ did  _ do a decent job at executing their plan to stop the apocalypse--well, they did a decent job at the parts they actually influenced. They didn’t really do much in the grand scheme of things. Not anything that necessarily helped. 

But they managed to avoid their own executions which was a success Aziraphale would take credit for thank you very much. 

“Let’s discuss this over lunch, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “And maybe a bottle of wine.”

Crowley slid his sunglasses down to his nose. He ran his fingers through his roots, shaking his hair out and letting it fall back down around his face. Aziraphale smiled as he did so. 

Crowley matched his smile. “Where to, angel?”


	2. Cairo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I completely offended an entire country, please let me know! I know that items being returned is a very serious issue to all the cultures that have been affected, and I handled this as I found appropriate. But, as a white American I definitely don't have any authority to be making the decision about what's appropriate or not. 
> 
> I looked into how Egypt feels about Britain having their artifacts (no surprise, they’re pretty upset) and what they want from Britain—i.e a public apology or to admit to fault. I couldn’t find anything beyond they just really want them back, but the British are pricks and believe that they “discovered” these items and because their museums are more popular, they deserve to keep them all. Anyway, I hope this fictional return of this one item can give us all hope that the British, someday, can stop being pricks. Or that they can at least be tricked into it. 
> 
> Also, please enjoy Aziraphale and Crowley with matching “fucking shit up” jackets! Even though there is absolutely no reason for Aziraphale to need one. He just wears it so he can match his husband.

“I got you something.” 

Crowley reached in the back window of the Bentley and pulled out a black jacket with orange reflectors at the shoulders. He held it out for Aziraphale to admire. It was identical to the jacket that he had worn for decades and wore for his biggest jobs. 

Aziraphale fondly remembered when Crowley walked into his bookshop in the mid-1970s, covered in mud and wearing that jacket, grinning ear-to-ear. Initially, he had scolded Crowley for tracking in mud and water so close to his books. After a shower, however, Crowley clutched a hot cup of tea and told Aziraphale all about his great plan for altering the M25. Aziraphale tutted, but he was quite proud of Crowley for being so clever. Later that night, Crowley rehearsed his presentation in the backroom of the shop as Aziraphale gave him suggestions and a little “wahoo.” 

“We can match!” Aziraphale said. 

“I thought it would look better if we wear the same clothes. I don’t think anyone would buy our story if we’re showing up as we usually look.”

Aziraphale looked down at his usual outfit, coupled with a new cardigan and his glasses. He looked to Crowley, dressed in skin-tight, black clothes with long hair tied into a neat bun. They did make quite an odd pair. Perhaps Aziraphale could pass as someone who worked for the British Museum, but Crowley would have been chased away with a broom during the interview process. Especially with that tattoo on the side of his face. 

“Thank you, my dear. That’s very kind of you.”

Aziraphale heard a mumble and a hiss as he opened the passenger side door and slid in. Crowley joined him, handing him the jacket which was neatly folded again. 

“What did you pack?” Crowley asked, looking in the backseat at the hard suitcase Aziraphale had placed there that morning. 

“Just a few things. I wouldn’t want humans to be suspicious about why we’re boarding a plane to Cairo without any luggage. I only packed necessities.”

“Like?”

“A few extra shirts—one for you, as well, my dear. You’re going to overheat in that outfit.”

“I’ll be  _ fine.” _

_ “ _ You say that now, but you’re going to be wishing you weren’t wearing all that black when we get there.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He had been in Cairo before (of course, this was long before Cairo was what it is now—before the urban heat island effect claimed the area). He knew what the heat was like in mid-July, and he had never minded it. 

“I also packed a few books and treats in case we get peckish at any point.”

“We’re only going to be gone for two days!”

“I’m prepared for the unexpected! Now, we’re going to be late for our flight if we don’t get a move on.”

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley stood in the curator’s office in the Museum of Cairo. Tugging on his new jacket sleeve, Aziraphale looked around at the paintings that hung from the wall and the full bookshelves that lined the perimeters of the room. He admired the books and noticed how carefully organized they were. Above all, he admired them for how well-loved they looked to be. The spines of the softcovers were worn and creased. The fabrics of the hardcovers were faded, and the dust jackets were torn slightly. A few books laid on the desk with flags and notes sticking out. 

“You have to look casual,” Crowley said. He had his hands in his jacket and frowned as usual. 

“I’m nervous.”

“You were fine meeting with Nazis to try to dupe them, but you can’t return a slab of rock to Egypt?”

“It’s not a ‘slab of rock,’ Crowley. It’s the Rosetta Stone! It’s one of the most cherished artifacts in the entire world, and its placement in the British Museum is one of the most controversial. There’s international relations resting on this.” 

“We have the paperwork.” Crowley looked at the files and envelopes Aziraphale had under his arm. “As far as anyone’s concerned, England is ready to apologize and move on.”

Aziraphale nodded. His stomach was still in knots. If anything went wrong, then they could find themselves in a lot of trouble. And then, the humans would start trouble amongst themselves. There would years of conflict and tension and racism ahead of them. That was the last thing Aziraphale wanted to cause. 

Reem Elkady walked into her office with two security guards and a well-dressed man following behind her. 

“There seems to be a bit of miscommunication between our museums,” she said. “We haven’t heard anything about the British Museum planning to bring the Rosetta Stone back.”

She eyed Aziraphale and Crowley cautiously. Rightfully so. Aziraphale’s heart beat fast and hard, but he smiled at her.

Reem was a woman in the late 40s, petite and, at the moment, serious-looking. She wore a grey suit, and her hair was pulled back in a bun. 

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m sorry that our people haven’t contacted you appropriately,” Aziraphale said, fumbling in his coat pocket for an ID that wasn’t there a second ago. “Truth be told, the trustees weren’t too eager about this and were probably reluctant to organize this well. But, we’re happy to finally be returning the Stone back to its home.”

Reem looked over his ID, which deemed him to Zira Fell, Ph.D. and the head of the British Museum’s Egyptology department (if such a thing truly existed). Reem seemed pleased with it and handed it back, looking at Crowley who stared back behind his sunglasses. 

“I’m just here to make sure it gets here in one piece,” he said. 

“Well,” Reem said. “I can’t say that we’re not happy about this, but we’re… confused. We thought it would be a public announcement or show up in a memo somewhere.”

“I understand.” Aziraphale handed her the files and envelopes. “This should be all the paperwork that’ll answer all your questions. It’s all completely legitimate! With a few signatures from you, the Rosetta Stone is officially in your possession. You own it.”

Reem looked through papers, handing them to her partner as she finished reading. She lost a touch of color in her cheeks. 

“Start calling people,” she whispered. “And have Nancy meet me in the back. Let her be the first one to look at the Stone.”

The man nodded and left. 

“There’s also a letter in there to be displayed with the Stone if you wish,” Aziraphale said. “An apology from the trustees for having been so—how did they put it?”

“Thick?” Crowley said. 

“Intransigent,” Aziraphale corrected. 

“I can’t say that anyone here would disagree with that,” Reem said. 

“Between you and me.” Crowley pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. “The British Museum doesn’t want to return everything they’ve stolen because if they did, the building will be empty.” 

“We really haven’t done much ourselves, have we?’ Aziraphale added with a frown that a parent would wear upon hearing that their young child couldn’t quit their paste-eating habit.

Reem smiled, her shoulders jerking with a suppressed laugh. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to collect herself. 

“I hope you gentlemen understand that we’re going to need to confirm everything before we accept it. It will take hours, and you will need to remain in the building.”

They nodded. Aziraphale relaxed, clasping his hands together in front of his tummy. As long as the British Museum wouldn’t claim theft (and they really wouldn’t be able to when they noticed the signed paperwork on the now-messy desk of the head trustee and the unread confirmation emails from the Museum of Cairo in his inbox), then everything would be right in the world. Due to an oversight, the museum would have to admit behind closed doors, the 760 kilogram stone was packed up and shipped out. 

“In the meantime, you’re welcome to have a seat in here.”

“We’d be happy to wait,” Aziraphale said. “And, while we do, would you mind if I take a look at your books?”

* * *

The early morning sun beat down on the city with little mercy. The heat rose from the pavement to add to the sweltering conditions, furthering the discomfort of the people who had the misfortune of having to be outside that day.

“I read this morning that this is one of the hottest weeks of the year,” Aziraphale said.

He took a sip from his cold cup of karkade, pleased with his choice of drink and attire. While he wasn’t fond of shedding his usual outfit, he was grateful he had made the decision to don a linen short-sleeved shirt. He felt a touch exposed with his arms seeing sunlight for the first time since… ever and the top button of his shirt being undone. But he would rather be indecent than be burning up. 

Aziraphale looked to Crowley who squirmed in his chair. He had refused to wear any lighter clothing, and as a result, his cheeks were flushed a bright red. 

“You should have worn the outfit I packed for you.”

Crowley grumbled. “Can we just get out of here soon?”

“Soon, my dear.”

Aziraphale sipped at his drink, trying to finish quickly while also savoring the taste. He didn’t want his dear demon to suffer, but he didn’t want the flavors of the hibiscus to go unappreciated. It was a difficult balancing act and, well, maybe Crowley would learn his lesson if he made him wait a few more minutes. 

“What do you think the news looks like back home?” he asked. 

Crowley snorted. “Probably aren’t saying anything to avoid embarrassment.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Do finish your water, Crowley. I don’t want you discorporating out here from dehydration.”

Crowley threw back the rest of his mineral water. Aziraphale smiled when he set the empty bottle on the table. 

“I’m sure we’ll hear about something once we’re back in London. They can’t keep a missing 800 kilogram stone a secret from the public for long.”

The Stone had found itself back home in Egypt in the middle of the night London-time. Its disappearance in Britain was sure to go unnoticed until the museum was readying to open hours later.

“I do feel as though we did something good,” Aziraphale said with a smile and radiating angelic grace. 

“Whatever.” Crowley wiped drops of sweat off his forehead with his fist and stood. “Let’s out of here. Lovely country, terrible heat.”

Aziraphale followed suit. “We should visit again in the winter.”

“I’ve no problem with that.”

“We can go to the museum! I’m sure they’re going to be quite popular.”

Crowley held out his arm and, despite the heat radiating from the black shirt, Aziraphale took it.


	3. Soho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter for domestic fluff and newspaper articles for a smug angel and demon. 
> 
> Also, if you're enjoying this story and my others, check out my Tumblr (mostweakhamlets)! I have a special link in my bio now if you're interested in reading more of my fics and maybe original stories!

Aziraphale stepped onto the stoop of his bookshop, breathing in the scent of the city after rain. The roads and sidewalks were still wet, and the air was that unique, comforting smell of natural water mixed with pollution. There was a slight chill that made Aziraphale wrap his cardigan tighter around himself as he admired the scant people passing by on the street.

He grabbed the newspaper a young man had left there that morning and closed the door on the outside world. His bookshop was warm and temporarily didn’t smell like mold and dust. Instead, it smelled of fresh coffee and fresh bread and a demon who was waking up from a nap. 

Crowley stretched his arms up and arched his back in a way most humans weren’t capable of. He rubbed his eyes and sat up on the sofa that he had claimed to be his spot two centuries ago. Aziraphale laid the newspaper on the short, oak table in front of him, next to a cup of coffee that he had set out earlier in hopes of rousing the demon.

“Good morning, my dear.” Aziraphale took his seat in his usual chair and sipped at his own coffee. “Did you sleep well?” 

Crowley hummed in response. His lips were set in a firm pout. No matter how little they actually needed sleep, he hated waking up and feeling groggy. Aziraphale found it undeniably cute when accompanied by his messy hair and flushed cheeks. 

“I got us breakfast,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to the plate of pastries and breads. “And a newspaper.”

Crowley smirked and grabbed the paper. Since their return to England two days ago, the newspapers had been flooded with reports on the Rosetta Stone suddenly appearing in Egypt. The British Museum had claimed that it was a “plan in the works” but after a paperwork mix up, it had happened before they had intended. But nevertheless, they were touting it as a case of British chivalry while a good portion of the country rolled their eyes. 

Each newspaper had their take on it, and social media was blowing up. Crowley had scrolled through Twitter the night before, gleefully reading all the online discourse under the hashtag “thestoneishome.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were rosy from smiling so much as Crowley read particularly thankful posts out loud. 

“Tell them that we’re happy for them!” he had requested. 

“Alright, angel.” And Crowley never did. 

Now, a new headline ran across the front page.  _ The Trustees of the British Museum Deny Any Knowledge of the Return of the Items and Will Not Comment Further.  _ Crowley skimmed the article. With the return of the stone, museums from all over were inquiring whether or not there were plans to return  _ their  _ items. With public support, the museum had been bombarded from every angle with questions. Finally fed up, it seemed, they were ceasing all correspondence with journalists. 

“‘The trustees of the British Museum have stated that they are unaware of future plans to return more items at this time,’” Crowley read. “‘When the museum decides to “donate” items of such importance, the board claims that it is not their decision but rather a political one made by people above them. They refuse to comment on the matter any further.’”

“‘Donate’,” Aziraphale scoffed. 

“They have to make themselves look generous somehow.” 

Aziraphale grabbed a danish. “Well, all seems to be right regarding this. It is satisfying trying to see them try to wiggle around saying that they were played for suckers.”

Crowley took his coffee (which contained three sugars, a splash of milk and was in a black mug with wings for a handle) and leaned back into the sofa. Aziraphale watched him relax when he took his first sip of coffee. He wanted to reach over and fix his hair and button up his shirt a bit more to keep him warm. He wanted to kiss him on the cheek that was covered in stubble and put his hand on a nearly non-existent hip. He wanted to be physically close to Crowley and work out all the pent up feelings he had. 

And then Aziraphale realized he  _ could  _ and he had before. Every time he remembered that he could do as he pleased now, his stomach tightened up and flipped. 

“Let me see that paper, my dear.”

Crowley began handing him the paper, but Aziraphale stood and sat next to him on the sofa. He tucked hair behind Crowley’s ear and pressed a long kiss into one cheek while cupping the other. Crowley immediately leaned into him, claiming a spot against his shoulder. 

“Let’s see what else they have to say,” Aziraphale said, picking up the paper and setting Crowley’s coffee aside. “‘On Tuesday, The Museum of Cairo has released an official statement thanking those who advocated for the return of the Rosetta Stone. They expressed their hopes to see the additional artifacts they have asked to be returned in the past.’”

“Probably should have returned everything else,” Crowley mumbled, eyes closed. 

“Perhaps. But wasn’t the goal to get the ball rolling rather than do  _ all  _ the work for the humans? You can’t do a child’s homework for them.”

Crowley hummed. Aziraphale stroked his hair and continued reading. 

“‘The British Museum has been encouraged by the public and by former colonies of the British Empire to continue sending stolen items back to their home countries. The citizens and government of Greece have been especially vocal since news on the Rosetta Stone broke earlier this week.’” Aziraphale pursed his lips. He thought about the exhibits he and Crowley had explored the day they had discussed flying to Egypt. He turned to his sleepy demon. “Crowley? Dear? How do you fancy a trip to Greece soon?”


	4. Greece and Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are my thoughts: Crowley was a model. Aziraphale might have been, too (maybe for Rubens), but he would never tell Crowley about it. Crowley had complex feelings about humans sometimes, but he ultimately loves them for being them. Aziraphale is the reason trains and planes run behind schedule. 
> 
> I also condensed the last two chapters into one, so this is it! We're done! Big thanks to Saercura for requesting this of me! 
> 
> If you'd like to check out other stuff that I do, check out my Tumblr (mostweakhmalets). I tend to post more ficlets there of AUs I hardly write full-length fics for.

He was reclining under the hot, white light, narrow hips propped up on his drapery and remained of his arm. Defined core muscles supported his upper body while the remnants of his legs were stretched out to the side. Hunks of grey flesh were chipped off and browned scratches stretched across his protruding ribs and exposed thighs. 

He was half of a man now. 

Aziraphale had run his fingers over the cold chest an hour before. His palm pressed against a pec, feeling the porous scarring. He wanted to continue down the torso and to the waist and hips. He wanted to feel more of the chilled skin under his hands. 

Trustees and curators crowded around him. They whispered to each other and cast glances to the man who claimed to have his Ph.D. in Classical Studies and fidgeted with his ring. Gloved hands of doctors examined the body, making note of the breaking points of missing limbs and abrasions. They only used delicate touches and refrained from touching too much, wanting to keep the scene preserved as much as possible. 

The doctors nodded at their audience, who turned back to Aziraphale with little smiles. 

“Thank you,” they said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to have it back.”

“I know it’s not everything, but it’s a start to what I’m sure will be more repatriations in the future.”

“We look forward to seeing the entire collection be returned.”

“I’ll pass that along. Our trustees are  _ very  _ excited to hear how their fellow museums are reacting to their heritage being returned. Nothing brings them more joy to know that their exhibits are finding their rightful homes.”

The trustees nodded and turned away to admire the marble man. 

After Aziraphale finished lying through his teeth, he joined Crowley in the corridor. Crowley was leaning against the wall between two priceless paintings and kicked himself away as soon as Aziraphale stepped through the door. Aziraphale eyed the boot mark Crowley left behind. Waving his hand, it was gone. 

“How’d it go?” Crowley asked, holding out Aziraphale’s safety jacket. 

Aziraphale took it. It wasn’t becoming of an academic to wear it inside, he had told Crowley, and abandoned it when he was invited into the exhibition room. 

“Smoother than last time,” he said. “Sorry you couldn’t join.”

“It’s fine. I had plenty to do out here.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes but didn’t ask for details. “Are you ready to go, angel?”

“Across the Mediterranean?” 

“And to wherever your heart desires.” 

Aziraphale took Crowley’s arm as they walked through the museum. They stopped when Aziraphale saw something that piqued his interest. After a few minutes of cooing, they would move on again. And then Aziraphale would see another painting or sculpture he fancied and paused to admire it. 

“You should have seen their faces when they first saw it,” Aziraphale said. He squeezed Crowley’s bicep. “It’s just like how you can get at times.”

“Don’t get sappy.” 

_ “I’m  _ the sappy one?” 

Simply referencing the way Crowley’s face lit up at seeing Aziraphale was enough to make both of them blush. Crowley didn’t like acknowledging how uncensored his affection was even as far back as Eden, even if he still wore the same expression whenever Aziraphale did as much as loosen his bowtie. Aziraphale didn’t say anything for he knew Crowley liked to imagine that he kept up the persona of an evil, intimidating demon well. 

“Would you like to stop for baklava before we leave?” Aziraphale asked. “I’m a bit peckish.” 

“Sure. As long as I can get galaktoboureko somewhere.”

“Oh, that does sound appetizing! I’m sure there’s a place nearby who can make us both.” 

The sun emerged from behind clouds as soon as they stepped outside. It felt wonderful on top of Aziraphale’s fair head, but Crowley immediately stripped out of his dark jacket and left it behind on the reflective walkway. A minute later, and it would be neatly tucked inside Aziraphale’s suitcase. 

The Galleria Borghese was nearly empty. Being in the middle of the day in the middle of the week, not many locals were visiting and tourists weren’t particularly active. Either that or a little miracle allowed the angel and the demon to have the exhibits to himself. 

The main room itself with its high, ordained ceilings was art enough. It was what Aziraphale wished Heaven looked like and occasionally told humans what they could expect. 

* * *

“Do you remember the Phidias replica we saw at the Met?” asked Aziraphale. “It wasn’t too long ago.”

“I don’t think I was with you.”

“You were! You might not have been paying attention.”

“I remember seeing the original  _ Athena Parthenos _ in Greece in 447 B.C.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know, dear. He used you as a reference.”

“Guess he thought I looked like Athena herself.”

“I think he was just looking for a tall, redheaded model. I saw the sculpture as well.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. “And?”

“I think if he were using your likeness as inspiration, then he didn’t do you justice.”

Easily flustered, Crowley deflected. He turned away so that Aziraphale couldn’t see his red face. “Shame they’re not around anymore.”

“It is,” Aziraphale said. “The replicas are beautiful, but they’re not the same, are they? They’re missing some character.”

Humans had a tendency to be both creative geniuses and destructive tyrants. In his existence as a lowly demon, Crowley had watched hundreds of civilizations build and make and write and paint and draw and sculpt and cook. And then hundreds of civilizations destroy and pillage and rape. 

Crowley had studied his hands when he first stepped into his human corporation. He had counted his fingers, ran them over the fine hairs on his knuckles. He scratched at a freckle, thinking it was a spot of dirt. He tapped his nails against the walls of Hell. In Eden, he pressed his palms into the wet dirt of the deep garden beds. The squish was more satisfying that the grimy, damp bricks. 

Later, he told Aziraphale about it, eager to sink his hands into the thick mud on the surface from the first rain. Aziraphale didn’t find the same joy and cringed when Crowley grabbed his wrists with his dirty hands. They sat together in the garden, asking each other if they had all the same parts as each other as young children of different assigned genders did. 

They pulled their robes up to show one another their legs and touched their hair, comparing the long waves to short curls. Crowley liked how Aziraphale’s stomach rounded out and how his arms were soft. He squeaked when Crowley poked him and laughed when he saw how knobby the demon’s knees and elbows were. 

Crowley pulled fruit off every tree and dug into them, pulling the flesh out of the skins and scraping seeds out, showing Aziraphale how to use his thumbs to peel an orange and how to scoop pomegranate into his mouth using his fingers. Aziraphale had no problem getting dirty for the sake of a snack as juice ran down their chins, stickied their cheeks, and stained their mouths. And again, like young children, they explored almost every inch of the garden, grabbing at what they thought they could eat and touching rough tree bark or smooth leaves. 

Crowley thought hands were great. It was lovely that humans had them as well, he always thought, buying pottery and tapestries. But also terrible, he realized, after witnessing his first siege. 

“We’ll be late for our train if we don’t leave soon,” Aziraphale said, checking the pocket watch that he had since 1849. “What do you say? A few more sculptures?”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale wrapped his hand around the inside of Crowley’s elbow.

Human hands could sculpt marble as Crowley always wanted to. But human hobbies were hard to master sometimes. Even if there were was a human standing behind him the entire time, gently directing his arms and hands around chisels and hammers and resting on his hips and pulling back locks of hair. 

He much preferred being a model and being both the center of attention and nothing but an object at the same time. He enjoyed sitting still as someone worked away at chipping away stone or shaping clay to the details of his body. 

“What do you think of this one?” 

Crowley looked at the bust in front of him. The eyes were lifeless. He shrugged. 

“I like it,” he said. 

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale led him to another piece. Crowley sighed and kicked his heel against the floor. 

“Come on, angel. We should leave.”

“I’m sure the train will be a bit behind schedule—”

“Oh no. I’m not slowing down another train because you want to look at another statue or order another piece of galaktoboureko.” 

Aziraphale’s lower lip puckered out. His eyebrows raised. 

Crowley threw his head back and began pacing. The only way to avoid giving into Aziraphale’s pouts was to avoid looking at him all together. 

“It’s not like they’re ever on time anyway. And maybe there’s other people who would be running late. And who knows when we’re going to be back?”

Aziraphale wrung his hands together and dipped his chin. Fuck, he was adorable. 

“Fine. 15 minutes.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, dear! This is the last time. I promise.” 

“I’m only doing it because there might be some poor soul who’s going to get yelled at by his boss somewhere because he showed up 15 minutes late to a meeting or something.”

“That’s very good, dear.” Aziraphale was already walking to another statue. “Very wily.”

Crowley shoved the tips of his fingers into his jeans. Of course, he was wily. He was the wiliest. 

An hour and a half later, the train lurched out of the station. Aziraphale leaned back in his seat and pulled out his copy of  _ The Prince.  _

“Would you like something to read, dear?” he asked, opening the worn cover. 

“Do you only have books like those?” 

“I have Machiavelli’s  _ Discourses on Livy.”  _

“No, thank you.”

“Let me see what else I packed.” Aziraphale dipped his head down to dig through the duffel bag he had as a carry-on. Currently, it was full of light clothes that Crowley would later ask to change into when the Italian heat finally got to be too much. “All I have is  _ Selections from the Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci.”  _

Crowley shrugged. It was better than staring at his phone for 90 minutes. “I’ll take it.” 

Aziraphale passed it over the table. Crowley flipped through it without really reading much. He wasn’t a huge fan of reading. Years ago, he had no problem with the hobby. One tended to read when they were friends with Aziraphale. But once cellphones began improving and wifi was invented, the size of his book collection had plateaued. 

“You knew him, didn’t you?” 

Crowley looked up. Aziraphale was peering at him over his book. 

“Leonardo? Yeah.” 

“I suppose you must have influenced him quite a bit.” 

“Not really.” Crowley stretched his legs out under their table, knocking his ankles against Aziraphale’s. “He was pretty independent. He just let me see what he was up to.”

“How does that book hold up?” 

“Pretty well. I didn’t read much of his journals.”

“I should have taken you to see the exhibit at the British Library. They had a few of his notebooks.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled. “That Microsoft American owns one of them.”

He dipped his head down into his book, though he didn’t focus on the words on the page. Aziraphale had set his book down and rested his hands on the table. His ring hit the plastic as his fingers fidgeted. 

Human hands. 

“Does it bother you?” Aziraphale asked. “To see your friend’s work being bought like that? And to see it be the possession of someone else? It must kill you.”

“Jesus Christ, angel. What kind of question is that?” Crowley sat up, jaw dropped in shock. “What kind of point are you trying to make?”

“I’m not trying to make a point! You never talk about these things, and I thought maybe you’d like to.”

“On a train? And in response to a question phrased like a psychopath? ‘It must kill you.” What the hell, angel!” 

“Fine. I won’t say anything for the rest of the trip.” 

Turning slightly away from Crowley and towards the window, Aziraphale picked up his book and began reading. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his lips were pursed in a pout. 

Crowley shoved his head into his hands and looked at the journals. He shifted in his seat. Aziraphale aggressively turned a page, making sure that he was heard. 

“Yes.” 

Aziraphale slowly exposed his face. “What?”

“Yes, it bothers me. I hate thinking about how greedy humans are. They’re better than that. And that’s what this whole month has been about. A few of them can ruin it for everyone. They can hoard whatever they like and make sure other people only see it on their terms. It’s not what I tempted Eve for.”

“It seems like She’s getting the last laugh out of that one.” Crowley didn’t response. “Look, dear, I don’t know what to say to make you feel better, but we go through this every few centuries. We feel down about whatever humans are doing, and then we feel better.”

“I know.” 

“And we can only intervene so much. Like I said before, it’s not our place to make humans good.”

“Definitely not my place.” 

“It most certainly is not. And I know you like dragging out the worst of them, but I know that this isn’t your intention.” 

“I just like getting them riled up. Not making them buy out resources that everyone could use. That’s cruel.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Let’s not dwell on this, shall we? Your kindness is showing.” 

“Ugh.”

“What do you say to cocoa? It’s a bit chilly in here.” 

Aziraphale picked up his thermos from his bag. He unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount into it. Crowley wrapped his hands around it. It  _ was  _ a bit cold in the carriage, and his fingers had begun to go stiff with it. 

“So, what should we do first when we arrive?” Aziraphale asked. He took a swig of cocoa and dabbed at his lip with a handkerchief that appeared in his hand. “Would you like to stop somewhere for a late lunch? We could get into Enoteca Pinchiorri.”

“Would be devastated if I asked if we wait until dinner?” 

“Only a little, but I can cope.” 

“If we do that, we have more time at the museum.” 

“You’re right.” 

“And I’ll get you extra dessert a bakery before we head back to the hotel.” 

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Oh, thank you, dear!” 

There was nothing Aziraphale adored more than savoring every flavor of every delicacy when they traveled. Every holiday took them to Azirpahale’s top-rated restaurants, cafes, and bakeries. And Crowley was happy to follow him and look at the delicately crafted pastries and icings and the carefully placed plates. Aziraphale found endless joy out of the endless possibilities humans found with their food. And to Crowley, there was nothing better than watching Aziraphale’s eyes light up at the sight of a perfectly prepared meal being laid in front of him by perfectly flawed human hands. 


End file.
